


The Pride of a Broadbeam

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Broadbeam Pride, Embarrassment, Gen, Happy Ending, Khuzdul, Light Angst, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His was a family of Broadbeams; that’s what they were proud to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pride of a Broadbeam

“C’mon, ye sloths, we’re movin’!” Bofur urged his brother and cousin, tugging at their arms. Bifur rewarded him with a capitulating smile, Bombur a quiet grumble under his breath.

They stood in a line of Dwarves both old and young, ready to accept the burden of aiding Thorin Oakenshield on his possibly ill-fated Quest. A white-bearded, kindly Dwarf sat at a small table with the details they would need to know. To the Broadbeams’ surprise, most hastily retreated after only a moment listening to the scribe’s descriptions.

The weak hearts of others didn’t cause Bofur anxiety in the very least. He was all for going on the Quest, and it was far known that where one Broadbeam went the other two readily followed.

Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were forced to wait extra-long for another family trio in front of them. The silver-haired one, who was obviously the eldest, was arguing fiercely with his auburn-haired companion, while the youngest of their party looked on and wrung his hands. It took them quite a while to get along and when they did Bofur breathed a sigh of relief.

“Blessed Lord Mahal, they’re finally gone!” With these words he stepped up to the table where the scribe sat.

“Hello, sirs,” the white-haired Dwarf greeted them politely. “Balin, son of Fundin, at your service.”

“ _Gamut manun ai-mênu_ ,” Bifur returned.

The scribe blinked in surprise at the Ancient Tongue. Bofur translated, “Good day t’ ye.” He lifted his hat and added, “Bofur an’ Bombur, sons o’ Bromur, an’ Bifur, son o’ Hifur, at yer service.”

“We want to know about Thorin Oakenshield’s Quest,” Bombur announced unnecessarily, causing Bofur to roll his eyes.

“Aye, that’s why we’re here, o’course. How ’bout it?”

The Dwarf leaned forward on the table. “Well, it’s definitely not for the weak-willed. We expect hardly restful nights, low provisions,”—Bombur took on a look of dismay—“sickness and injuries, many enemies, possibility of death...”

The list went on and Bofur was forced to dig an elbow into Bifur, who had already started to phase out of reality. Balin didn’t seem to notice, much to their relief.

“...And that’s just _on the way_ to the Mountain,” Balin at last concluded, smiling ruefully. “Once we get there, we’ll have to kill the Dragon. Suffice to say, our hopes are high and our chances low.”

Bofur considered. “We’ll join,” he decided.

Balin’s brows, thick as winter hedgerows, shot up instantly. He stared at them, his eyes proclaiming volumes of his disbelief.

“Hey, don’t give me that look,” Bofur chided him with a grin. “We’ll be great assets t’ ye.” Immediately he began counting off the reasons. “Bifur’s wicked with his spear—ye should see th’ kips hangin’ on his wall!—Bombur’s good with knives, and I’ve got some tricks with m’ mattock. We’re musicians, we can keep up spirit in th’ group. We carve toys, so if we come upon any towns we can trade ’em fer provisions. Not that we’ll be in need o’ any—Bombur here can cook anythin’ from a moose t’ his own toes. We’re miners too, so once we kill th’ Wyrm we can see if th’ gold’s still worth somethin’. That enough fer ye?”

“Of...of course,” Balin stammered. He ducked out of sight for a moment, retrieving a parchment, an inkpot, and a quill. “Sign here,” he requested, setting the items before them.

The smile fled from Bofur’s face. He swallowed hard and took a quick step back.

Bombur spoke uneasily. “Do we _have_ to sign?”

Balin chuckled. “Thorin needs to know who you are, doesn’t he?”

“Well, yes...but...” Bombur stopped.

“If you’re who you say, you don’t have to worry. He’s not going to fault you,” Balin encouraged.

A flush was creeping into Bofur’s cheeks, and Bombur was shifting from one foot to the other. Bifur leaned an elbow on the table and met Balin’s gaze.

“ _Ogamut-u-nuzuh_ ,” he said gravely.

Balin’s brows knit. He looked at Bifur uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, obviously not understanding.

Bifur’s eyes closed in frustration. Lord Mahal, did communication _always_ have to be difficult?

His movements jerky with irritation, Bifur pressed his hands together and then opened them again palms up. He lowered his head over his hands, studying them as though they held deep secrets. Then he looked up at Balin and shook his head so hard his braids whipped his face.

“ _Ogamut-u-nuzuh!_ ” he repeated sharply.

Realization dawned in Balin’s eyes. “Oh,” he breathed. “You can’t read.”

Bifur then gestured to the quill and again shook his head.

“Or write,” Balin concluded, keeping his voice soft for the sake of their pride. Bifur nodded affirmation and then reached over to rub the shoulder of Bombur, who was looking as though he wanted to sink into the ground.

Bofur spoke in a tight voice. “As I said, we’re miners. Tinkers. Toymakers. We’ve not learned such things. Those words, those names—” He tapped the inked words already on the scroll. “—they’re just vapid lines t’ us.”

“Well, I can’t write it for you,” Balin sighed apologetically. “My handwriting is quite recognizable and Thorin would surely make a fuss.”

“Are ye sayin’ we can’t go?!” Bofur asked in dismay. “Just ’cause we’re...” He cringed at the pain of saying it. “... _illiterate_?”

Balin paused. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

—

 

 

“Thirteen. _Thirteen_ , Dwalin, including us!” Thorin agonized, running his hands through his hair as he stared at the list of volunteers for the Quest.

“It’s better than none,” Dwalin replied matter-of-factly. “And we may well pull it off with just thirteen.” Reaching over Thorin’s shoulder, he pressed a finger onto three particular names. “Balin says that these three are quite talented. Fine cooks, finer warriors, and apparently learned ones. One of them is able to speak the Ancient Tongue fluently.” Dwalin didn’t want Thorin to think he was lavishing praise on strangers so he repeated hastily, “At least, that’s what I hear from Balin.”

Thorin knit his fingers together, deep in thought. Outside were nine brave souls who trusted him to lead. But his burden-weary blue eyes lingered there only a moment before shifting to the door to the left of the hall. Behind that door were his nephews, Fíli and Kíli.

“Anything to get them home.” Thorin’s words were unusually soft, but he didn’t make any attempt to strengthen them; Dwalin was his dearest confidant and could be trusted to keep his emotions absolutely private.

“Aye.”

After a long moment of silence, Thorin straightened. “Alright. Time to meet Balin’s learned cooking warriors and anyone else daring enough to meet doom in the face.” He stood, straightening his coat, and called out, “Fíli! Kíli!”

The door on the left opened. Instantly Thorin’s breath was stolen away by the sight of the princes. They may be Dwarves of age in their cleaned and pressed clothing, yet they were still so young. So young...

Forcing deep melancholia into the back of his heart Thorin instructed them to stand on either side of him. Fíli walked with purpose, as the Crown Prince was trained to, his perfectly braided golden hair and moustache mirroring his even calm. Dark, wavy-haired Kíli bounded into place, giving a wide smile behind his five-o’clock-shadow before smoothing his face like his brother.

Thorin motioned to Dwalin. “Bring them in.”

Dwalin dipped his head in acknowledgement and strode to the door. When the door opened, the nine filed in. Thorin was taken aback by the sight of them.

Balin was in the lead. He smiled unabashedly at Thorin and the Princes, despite the seriousness of the mood. He bowed, introducing himself as was required.

“Balin, son of Fundin, at your service.”

Balin and Dwalin’s cousins came next, bowing in unison.

“Óin and Glóin, sons of Gróin, at your service.”

“Dori—and Nori—and Ori, sons of Fori, at your service.”

The last three came more gradually, more shyly. Thorin waited patiently as they shuffled hesitantly forward and stood in a somewhat messy line.

Bofur felt the tips of his ears heat when he forgot to take off his hat and it fell off instead when he bowed. The thud as it hit the floor echoed through the hall and he quickly snatched it up, clutching it to his chest.

“Bofur—” he gasped out.

“—and Bombur,” his brother added nervously.

“—sons of Bromur, at your service.”

There was silence and Bofur’s blush spread to more than his ears as he prodded their inattentive cousin.

Bifur startled and the faraway glaze in his eyes cleared. He paused, eyeing Thorin speculatively. After a long, tense moment he swept a deep bow and murmured, “ _Bifur, Hifurul, ai-mênu duzhuk_.”

Bifur watched Thorin’s reaction closely and saw the incredulous spark in the King’s eyes. He could see him questioning: _These are the ones Balin praised so highly?_ Bifur might have been hurt, but he rejected the negative feelings when he remembered how boldly Bofur had listed their attributes before.

As they returned to the others, Bifur’s chin tilted higher than was probably respectful in the presence of a King, but he didn’t care. His was a family of Broadbeams; that’s what they were proud to be.

Bofur sighed inwardly when he saw his cousin’s actions, a silent dare to the King that went rigidly ignored, but definitely not unnoticed. Making a mental note to have a talk with Bifur later, Bofur took a breath. One of the other Dwarves was watching him expectantly. He had to make his move.

When he went past, Bofur sidled his foot to the right and bumped the toe of his boot against Nori’s. Nori faltered over Bofur’s foot, falling to the floor.

“Hey!” Nori cried indignantly, but Bofur saw the understanding grin in his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry!” Bofur kept up the act and held out a hand.

“Thanks, mate,” Nori said when he was back on his feet, but he wasn’t thanking him for helping him up. No one else had noticed the gleam of the coins Bofur had pressed into Nori’s palm.

Payment for forging their signatures.

When they were all calm once more, Thorin began speaking to them of how grateful he was that they had accepted this great challenge. His words about having something to give that others wouldn't was what made the Broadbeams smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdûl Translations:
> 
> Ogamut-u-nuzuh = not good in books
> 
> Bifur, Hifurul, ai-mênu duzhuk = Bifur, son of Hifur, at your service
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! :D Please comment or critique!


End file.
